Without Anne
by Meadowlarkflyaway
Summary: Gilbert is retired, mourning the loss of his beloved wife Anne to a chronic illness. As he wades through coping with grief, he delves into the memories of their rich and full life together, from Avonlea, to Redmond, and beyond. A sad but sweet story of cherishing life. Inspired by "Without," a book of poetry by Donand Hall.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first attempt at fanfiction. Any thoughts, ideas, or critiques are coveted and welcomed.**

 **Anne and Gilbert are my favorite literary couple, and I find their relationship so beautiful. I hope this story reflects that, and the the sad nature of losing a love one emphasizes the intimacy they share. To quote Emily Dickinson, "I like a look of agony because I know it's true."**

 **Credit to LMM for the AOGG world, and also to Donald Hall whose own poetry of loss has inspired every chapter.**

* * *

Gilbert sat at the kitchen table, staring out at the early spring morning. The sun rose, enveloping the earth in bright gleaming light, penetrating his eyes. He turned, groggily bringing a wrinkled, shaky hand to rub his face wearily. He bumped his cup of coffee in the process, spilling it over his dingy white shirt. He continued to sit, hands to his face, undisturbed by the hot liquid.

Their cat came into the room, meowing chirpily, indicating he was present and ready for his daily breakfast. Gilbert put elbows on the table, staring numbly. He wondered when the cat would stop looking for her, stop expecting her to be here each morning. He dreaded that day. The day when life would move on.

He looked again at the rising sun, a golden mist descending upon the lush green budding life. How could spring go on when the very vision of spring was gone?

* * *

 _Weeks earlier_

Anne lie in bed, her face pallid and brow heavy with perspiration, eyes turned toward the fading blues and yellows of the evening. Her hair stuck to the pillow above her as she slowly slipped to a slouch over the past hours. Gilbert sat beside her in a chair, hunched over and holding a tired limp hand, watching her as she thought.

"In all these years, in all the stories I wrote of others around us, why didn't I ever write our story?" Anne asked, turning her eyes to him.

He pondered, images of their life springing before him: her young wide smile accompanied by squinted, laughing eyes looking up at him. Afternoons in their later years when all was right and they would have tea upon their patio, overlooking the rolling hills, delighted that he could still make her laugh. Her shrill sobs, shrieking echoes through their hollow, empty house after losing a child. Sharing companionable silence lying in bed, their children asleep, holding each other as they drifted into exhausted slumber of early parenthood.

He looked at her with sad eyes but contented smile. "Because we were living the real thing. We didn't need a story."

They both gazed at one another, their eyes meeting, but their thoughts distant as they remembered the joys and sorrows that presented themselves over 30 years.

Her eyes focused upon him then. Her husband, her best friend.

She whispered, "I don't want to die."

* * *

They lie in bed together, touching, Gilbert's body turned and curled to hers, Anne laying on her back, head tilted against his.

"It's funny you know, planning your own death." She said simply, a thoughtful chuckle on her lips.

Gilbert lifted his head, looking at her.

"I always imagined it so romantically, me dying for a noble cause. I would heroically save a child from a flowing river, as her desperate mother crouches ashore, longing, hoping, willing her to come back. And I would jump in, using my momentum to usher the child to land, all the while drifting off myself." She laughed at the besotted ideals of her naive youth. "I supposed I thought I always was destined to be Elaine the lily maid, floating dreamily into the abyss. My funeral would brings hundreds together, pledging to live from then on cherishing all life's precious gifts. There would be much crying, of course, mourning that a heroine had gone from their midst."

Gilbert couldn't help thinking with a pang that's exactly what the funeral attendees will think and do, heroine or not.

She sighed, "But really, it's quite boring this dying business. Planning the ceremony, choosing what to wear. It's like planning for a church function I don't have to attend. What should I wear, do you think?"

Gilbert slowly placed his head back on her shoulder, trying to focus on the details of planning and not the event they were planning for. "Well, you know what I think."

Anne smiled. "Hmm, I can't think," she said playfully, for she loved when he adored her. "Why don't you remind me?"

He sat up, kissing her brow. "Your light green dress, of course."

It was this dress she had worn over the years dozens of times, for every anniversary, for special dates with just the two of them. Other evenings, before bed, in the solitude of their own bedroom, he'd ask her to try it on. It was Anne's Dress, the one that the matched her lively spirit so well. It was as old as their Redmond days, and he had urged her through the years to have in mended and tailored as life went on.

"I suppose I never did tell you the story that made me love it so much on you," he teased, smoothing her unbrushed damp hair away from her.

Her eyes twinkled through the sickness at him. She never did tire of the story. "I suppose you ought to, then."

* * *

Gilbert paced around his matchbox dorm room, checking his watch absentmindedly every few minutes. _Only 5:45_ , he thought with a sigh. It wouldn't be until 7:00 that he'd make the walk to Patty's Place and escort Anne to Redmond's winter ball.

He saw Anne often, studying together, sharing glances and smirks in class, going on walks with their friends, debating in front of the fire. But something about getting dressed up and going to a dance together felt intimate, like it was just the two of them. It wasn't just any fellow that was escorting Anne, it was _him_. That meant he could claim more dances with her without worrying if he was being too imposing. It meant she would be on his arm, it meant that she would wear his flowers, and he would be the first and last to see her tonight.

No wonder he was giddy and nervous. He could almost pretend they were really together, and he could dote on her and show her love more freely than he usually allowed.

It was 6:00 now. _Only one more hour,_ he thought with another rush of adrenaline. Needing to channel his energy somewhere, he decided a walk through the nearby park might be helpful. He skipped downstairs into the cool evening air.

Sleepy snow started lazily descending into the quiet air, as if the earth was dreamily and silently accepting winter with uplifted palms. Gilbert could hardly contain his excitement; there was always something magical about the year's first snow, especially on a night like tonight.

The path led into a clearing, surrounded with firs, an oasis in the city. A thin and delicate woman slowly twirled, arms outstretched, eyes closed and head upturned to the falling flakes.

Gilbert's heart stumbled along with his feet as he realized it was Anne—of course. He couldn't help but chuckle a murmured, "Oh Anne," as he watched her pure, unashamed and unaware bliss. She was like a fairy of the winter, her twirling arms commanding delightfully for the sky to sprinkle the earth.

She looked like a vision of life itself—cheeks aglow, lips red from the cold. Her bright hair contrasted with the white around her, reminiscent of fire and ice. But it was her dress that transformed her image from beautiful to radiant. The light green fabric made her like spring to winter's death. Gilbert had always thought her lovely, but with a burst of revelation, he realized this image was why he loved her: Her presence was abundant life to him, gracing the world with beauty and light. Without her would be a bleak, dark world, indeed.

Without thinking, he jogged over to her, taking her hands and twirling around with her. With a smile, her eyes opened, bright and radiant, as if she knew he was there all along. Their laughs filled the air as they linked arms, skipping together, until the crashed side by side on a bench.

Between laughs and gulps of fresh air, Gilbert looked at Anne.

"Anne!" He said, realizing at once with fear she might have forgotten the evening he had so painstakingly prepared for. "Aren't you supposed to be getting ready?"

She sighed delightfully, "Oh yes, and I am. Phil and the girls and I promised each other to get ready with one another, helping with dresses and hair and such, but then I saw the snow. It was calling to me," she chuckled. "As I rushed out the door I gave repeated apologies and they just laughed me off."

He shook his head, smiling, thankful she hadn't forgotten him but was simply overcome with joy. It was so like her.

"But Anne, we really should get back. You don't even have a coat!," giving him an excuse to take in her appearance again, marveling at the way the green complimented her slight creamy arms.

The snow started to fall faster, pelting against their faces as they ran back. Gilbert held his coat above them, gripping Anne's waist as she gripped his. They laughed as they ran, feeling like children again.

At the end of the night, Gilbert hovered with Anne on Patty's Place porch, extending their time together. The night with her was more of a dream than he had imagined, and he couldn't will himself to wake up just yet.

They talked of school, discussing assignments, sharing with earnest passion all they were learning and the dreams that were spurred on by their studies. They drank from each other like cisterns, and Gilbert wondered with hope if he could share soon his dream of a life with her.

A lull in the conversation came and they sat contently, staring into the winter air. Gilbert took in a breath, and with a rush, willed himself to speak his mind. "Well Anne, I should go. But I want you to know that-that, you look absolutely lovely tonight, and I think you should wear green always. It's so you."

He risked a glance at her, and was stunningly pleased to find she was smiling sweetly at him. She stood, extending her arm and pulling him up with her. "Thanks, Gil. It truly was a magical night." They held each others eyes, their hands still entwined. _What would happen if I kissed her right now_ , he thought.

But she turned away from him, opening the front door. With a glance back, she wished him goodnight with a small smile and closed the door behind her. As he walked back, he clung to the vision of her twirling in her light green dress, the image of spring, his Anne full of life.

* * *

With the story ended, they held one another. "Oh Gil," Anne said, tears slipping from her eyes. "How you've delighted my life."

Gilbert realized with empty numbness the next time he'd see Anne in her light green dress, she would be gone.

Spring would be dead.

* * *

 **Hopefully not too morbid :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Thank you to all who've been reading thus far! Your comments have brightened my life. Just a couple of things:_**

 ** _1) All characters and backstory belong to LMM, of course._**

 ** _2) I wanted to clarify the way I'm structuring this story; I'm following Gil's thoughts in a mild stream-of-consciousness. I picture him processing and thinking a lot, sometimes in jumbled fashion, following Anne's death, mulling over different memories as he thinks over the present (retired and widowed), distant past (the canon storyline), and recent past (Anne's illness)._**

 ** _3) I deviated from canon a bit and Gil is presently living in Avonlea. It felt right to have their last days spent there._**

 ** _4) Please forgive me for any errors. It's been a couple years since I was in school and my eye for editing is rusty._**

 ** _Hope you enjoy chapter 2!_**

* * *

"Even in my short life, my studies have shown that the female specimen is rivaled with non other," Charlie Sloane loftily drawled, forking a large piece of pie into his mouth. "As I could be perhaps, no-indeed, the largest of admirers of such specimen, I say with the best and utmost respectful intentions that womanly presences are a cause for distraction upon campuses." He gave one nod while chewing loudly, impressed by his own thoughts, and shifted right onto a delicately embroidered pillow the girls had been previously praying would make it through the night.

Gilbert winced, looking at Anne and finding her face pinched, as if she were struggling internally to choose which cringeworthy action to comment on. Since Redmond was one of the first crowd of schools to allow coeducation, it was a hot topic that cropped up constantly in discussion. Choosing to keep the conversation focused, Anne countered, "But must women suffer not receiving the most prestigious education simply because men find them a distraction? Perhaps with time men will grow to see a womanly presence as an equal to his own."

"Not with me around, honey!" Quipped Phil, glass of wine in hand. "And I am deliciously delighted to continue being a distraction," she trilled with a wink at Gilbert.

Gilbert laughed, and whether it was at Phil's mock arrogance or that Anne looked bewilderedly from Phil to himself after that wink, he wasn't sure.

Charlie was roused from gulping deeply of a glass of milk, "So you would see, Phil, it would be an outright crime if man were to ever forget your beauty whilst in the classroom."

"Oh Goggles, what a charmer you are." She said with wiggling eyebrows and a sip of wine. Charlie looked satisfied, and Gilbert could practically read his thoughts: _The Sloane-ator strikes again._

"The Sloaneishness was so thick in that room, Gilbert!" Anne said afterwards with a disgusted shiver. "If not for Phil's comments I was sure my temper would rise up and froth over. I had thought my instances of fiery tongue had be quenched long ago, but there is nothing like Sloaneishness to bring it roaring back! I suppose my red hair has to remind me sometimes it still is very much alive and well."

Gilbert stretched out his arms against the cool grass with a smile. "Yes, I was planning to hand a slate to you in case the Sloaneishness became too overwhelming."

Anne slapped a hand over him playfully from her place on the ground. "You do know me too well." After a pause she slowly asked, "But really, you don't think Redmond would go back to accepting only men after this backlash, do you?"

Gilbert thought momentarily. It was hard to say, really, for the controversies of coeducational colleges had been widespread across the national news. Among the reasons Charlie had quoted, resources were spread thinner as more women embraced the opportunity of education. Progress was not without cost, and the world was questioning whether women were worth it. He realized with shame that her distress was less about Sloaneishnes, and more that her dreams could be taken from her and squandered on men.

Looking at the stars, he embraced the moment with a steady breath to express the gift her presence had been to him since that fateful day in Mr. Phillips classroom. "Anne, this is what I do know: that slate you smashed over my head knocked more than just a bruise into my thin skulled thirteen-year-old self. It was as if a passion for life had been cracked open and spilled over. Even your stubbornness to forgive me stirred up this fire to want to keep up with you. You were so different, so determined to beat me, and I know you thought I was trying to beat you too, but I was really just so happy there was someone else who felt like learning mattered, someone who found themselves dreaming beyond what anyone else in Avonlea had accomplished. Your passion made me realize there was something missing in my life. And here we are now, studying together at college, and I'm certain I wouldn't be here without you inspiring me to not just dream, but grasp that I had the capacity to dream. Even now, there's no one who challenges me in the classroom or encourages me to keep studying hard. Definitely not Sloane. And I know it's not just my life-everyone who even takes a glimpse at Anne Shirley can't help but go away feeling as if some shift in the world has taken place."

He looked at her, her eyes closed, chin raised, limbs sprawled against the grass, as if the stars beaming down were penetrating her with life. He had been so caught up in his declaration he had forgotten to fully answer her question and hastily added, "So I know, that without you, without coeducation, there would be so much missing. I really do think good will win out and progress will continue. It's really hard to see how good couldn't out weigh the bad."

He willed for her to look at him, for her to reach out, for her to do something-anything! Anne opened her eyes with a smirk, staring above thoughtfully. "I guess the slate incident wasn't such a mistake after all," she teased.

Gilbert blew out a relieved laugh, thinking, _you have no idea_. Instead, he matched her joking tone, "Hey now, don't get too far ahead of yourself."

They lay among the expanse of Heaven, joking with one another, dreaming as equals.

* * *

 _Years later_

The evening stretched its cover of darkness, scattering the winking stars across the Avonlea sky. Gilbert secured one arm around a weakened Anne, the other gently supporting her crooked elbow as they took a slow ramble through their garden. Just a few steps tired her, but it wasn't hard for Gilbert to coax her to stretch her legs each evening while she was able.

She paused, craning her eyes to the heavens. His eyes followed her gaze, looking upon the stars so familiar to them, their old constant friends, keepers of the secret dreams they had uttered below them in the many years together.

Anne spoke, wondering aloud, "What do dreams become, when the future opens into an empty hallway of unknown?"

They both knew her illness had an inevitable end, and it ravaged Gilbert's thoughts. He had decided to squash and suppress them until she was ready to drag them into the open air, like now. "Are you afraid of it? Death?" Gilbert asked cautiously.

She set her eyes forward, continuing to walk. "When I was an orphan, before Green Gables, I dreamed of being whisked away to Heaven on a chariot, flying far, far away into the clouds, to arrive at a hovering world that was ethereal, foreign, distant, and unlike anything on earth. I think my experience on earth was too unbearable to think Heaven could replicate anything the same. But then I arrived at Green Gables, and it was if I had entered Eden itself. The air was sweet, and everything glowed with grand magnificence, and it was hard to imagine anything that could be yet greater still. With time, I toyed with the thought that perhaps all that is good and lovely and beautiful is that way because God grants the earth to share pieces of Heaven. It's as if the skies were a patchy, worn blanket, and Heaven's light shows through the especially worn parts."

She stopped again, gazing heavenward, "And on the other side of death I will step past the worn threads into all it's glory, to taste forever the goodness I have experienced here. There will be no more Novembers, no end to all that is right, no more weary afternoons and evenings laying in bed, but goodness will extend and the taste of it will never tire. If I were to die now, I think I'd find myself still continuing this walk, in our garden, the moon looming like a comfortable friend for tea. I would skip and leap to grab an apple, and it would be perfectly crisp, juicy, sweetly tart, and the next bite would taste better than before. Our dear Walter would be there, and we would talk of Wordsworth and Keats, and Joyce too-perfectly sweet and healthy. The only thing that would be missing is you, and I can't imagine it complete without-"

"Please, please Anne, please let's not imagine when we have to separate just yet," Gilbert interrupted and whispered desperately, grasping her to him with his other arm around her, foreheads touching. Death seemed to leer at him, inching ever so closely. He wasn't ready to let go, it couldn't be so soon! "We're here together now." He drew her close and kissed her tenderly, silencing her.

He continued to capture her lips with soft, desperate, lingering kisses, pausing every few moments for her tired lungs to catch up. His strong arms enveloped her frail sickened body, holding her up, while she clutched at his waist for strength. The image of an empty, unknown hallway continued to creep into Gilbert's mind, and he frantically escaped with each prolonged kiss, believing through it he could reach inside her, grabbing hold of the life that kept slipping from her grasp with each passing day.

"We're here now." He whispered, as she took a shaky breath and nodded, "We're together," shutting his eyes and meeting her lips for another time, his forearms pressed to her spine as he caressed her coarse graying hair.

Anne reluctantly expressed her legs were tiring, dreading to return to the coffin her bed had become. They sauntered in silence back to the house, folded together and walking as one.

That night he dreamed he were trapped in an empty unknown hallway. He looked up, but there were no stars to guide him. Just black expansive abyss.

* * *

Anne lay flat against the bed, wearied eyes shut, sheets haphazardly thrown about in the sickly summer heat. The candle light flickered against her ashy gray face as she called raspily for Gilbert.

Hearing her voice, Gilbert hastily emptied the bed pan and rushed to her side. "Gil," she repeated hoarsely, "It's so hot. Tell me please, of anything. I want to hear your voice. Tell me what's on that mind of yours."

He sat next to her, leaning over to place a damp cloth on her forehead. What could he say? He smoothed her mussed hair. Surely he couldn't express the gnawing torment as death's leering face inched closer and closer still.

He exhaled with an anguished sigh, "Sweetheart, you know the only thing occupying my thoughts. All I see is that empty hallway...I can't see a life beyond this, one that we haven't dreamed together."

"Shhh...Shhh." She moved her hand to her forehead, covering his. He knew he was failing her. They sat there together, Gilbert's chin to his chest, trying to find a way to make her laugh but discovering nothing.

After a time, he blew out the candle and crawled gingerly into bed with her.

He felt a hot whisper at his ear, "You are a pillar of your own Gil, the one that's so ingrained into the structure you forget its importance. You have been an image of steadfastness, of perseverance, faithfulness, stability. Don't you remember, all those times? You have stood tall and steady all these years, a steady oak to my swaying willow. Without you, I know all would have crumbled down."

Tears of exhaustion smarted his eyes. "I've been standing for you, Anne."

"You've been standing because it's who are you, Gilbert Blythe. You have for me, but you have for our children too, and for your patients. And you'll keep standing." And with one last hot breath she fell asleep.

Gilbert lay looking to the ceiling at the constellation they had placed there jokingly years ago, pretending they were children again. He felt a resolve strengthen deep within him again: They had made yet another dream together under the stars, and he would live to see it realized.

For her.

 _ **I just couldn't help putting Charlie and Phil in there, I just love them. LMM is so great at creating characters.**_


	3. Chapter 3

Crumpled slip of paper in hand, Gilbert sat in his blue chair staring across the blooming gardens of summer. Each passing year he would sit there and read, glancing up every so often to look over the sea of flowers that produced in waves, waiting to be snatched. She usually spent each morning gathering bunches to display about the house. This year the flowers longed to be tended to and appreciated. This year there were no flowers in their home.

Gilbert stared at the note inside his palm. It was her writing. The cat had always had a habit of batting toys throughout the house-sewing thimbles, trinkets, ribbons-today it was a crumple of paper. Before, they were just things, and they would shake their heads and laugh as they came home to a house littered with treasures. Now, they were more than things- they were hers, and it was as if Hansel and Gretel were laying a trail. He wished that it would lead to her.

It was probably just a grocery list, or maybe a quick scrawled reminder. _Why is this so hard?_ He wondered. _Why does every little thing make me think of her?_

A knock on the door came, and he pushed the note into his pocket. "Dad? You here?" A voice peered inside.

"Hi Rilla," Gilbert meets her with a kiss on the cheek. "Can I get you some tea?"

"Oh yes, that would be nice. Thank you." She says politely, taking a seat and looking around the sitting room. It had been several months since she last visited for the funeral and she hadn't known what state she would find the house in. Dad was always notoriously untidy, leaving around books, placing down keys in inconvenient places. Mom had always picked up with gentle tutting, keeping their home as orderly as Aunt Marilla had taught her. To her surprise, the room was immaculate. It was almost as if Mom had never gone. She ponders sadly if that was the intended purpose.

She looks up to see Gilbert come in with two cups of tea-such an odd picture-and breaks the silence between them. "How are you Dad?"

"Oh, I'm well, I'm well. Tell me, how was the drive here?"

Rilla blinks, sensing the distance between them carved by small talk "Um, it was fine."

"And how are things at home?"

She answers slowly, feeling like a stranger. _Maybe all Dad needs is a normal conversation right now_. "We're doing well, just busy. Ken especially, but he's good at being with the kids when he can. They were all so excited this morning because he was going to take them for a day at the lake." She smiles softly at him.

He smiles back with empty eyes. "That's good to hear. I've been busy too, writing for the medical journal. No rest for this retired man. And there's a lad down the road who's a young doctor, and he comes here every once in a while seeking advice. It's like I'm looking at my own past, nervous self."

Rilla smiles again, but without heart. The tension between them is a weighted burden. It feels wrong and forced to ignore the chasm of grief that stretches before them, the chasm they both carry as they sip their tea in silence.

"Well? Should we get started?" She was worried he had forgotten the reason she'd come. "To clean some things out? It's ok if you don't want to, if you're not ready," she assures him quickly.

The chasm widens. Gilbert forlornly answers, "No, no, it's ok. It's time." Every time he had opened her closet doors in the past, it was as if all her floppy hats, warm scarves, and delicate dresses were miles away, out of reach and distant. He could not touch them, he would not touch them. He always closed the doors with a shudder. The other night the cat strutted into the room, her sock triumphantly in its mouth. All Gilbert could do was wonder how the cat so easily had done it.

Rilla opens her jewelry box, carefully picking up the enamel heart necklace. "I'd like to keep this, if that's ok. It was mom's favorite. And it's pretty, in an old time-y way."

"Yes, it is quite old now," Gilbert says, thoughts elsewhere.

"Is there a story behind it?"

His eyes focus on hers, and a slight twinkle appears in them. "You remember the story about the slate, right? The story of how your mother and I met?"

Rilla smiles at the spark of life that crosses his face. "How could I forget!"

She jumps to sit beside Gilbert on the bed-the bed where she died-as he settles into telling the story animatedly. "So after that fateful day with the slate, Anne got in trouble for something or other, and our teacher condemned her to sitting next to me."

Rilla grins, awaiting him to continue. "She was seething, and I knew she hated that she had to sit next to me. As she started walking over, I pretended to just do my work, but my heart was beating so hard, and I kept thinking over and over, 'This is my chance! This is my chance!'"

Gilbert was enraptured in his story telling and Rilla was outright smiling now. "The day before, I had put together my allowance and bought a box of candy hearts after seeing how much my teasing hurt her. I felt so bad about the whole thing. I felt like an absolute wretch actually, and I thought maybe she was teased as an orphan about her hair. I wanted to make it up for her, so I fished through that box of hearts to find the perfect one. I found one that said, 'You are sweet,' and I thought, 'Yes, this is perfect. This'll do it.'"

Rilla covered her face with her hands, laughing, picturing where the story was going. "So back to the classroom: Anne was sitting with her head in her arms, completely mortified to be next to me, and I was gripping that candy heart trying to find the right moment. I sneaked it under her arm and waited. She looked at it for one second, stood up, dropped it to the ground, and smashed it to dust under her boot!"

Gilbert acted out the whole thing, and Rilla doubled over laughing with an "Oh noo!" He continued, "I just sat there staring, horrified and so embarrassed. I felt like it was my heart that was crushed! I had never seen a girl act like that, especially not to handsome little me," Rilla rolled her eyes. He sounded like Jem. "But I couldn't help but be intrigued, thinking, 'Who is this girl?' She was so interesting and full of surprises, I couldn't keep my eyes off her since." He ended, looking far away and laughing.

"And when did you give mom this?" Rilla asked, holding up the necklace.

"Ah yes. Now that's a different story."

* * *

Gilbert sat on his dorm bed, holding his newly made purchase and groaning outwardly. "Of course, the one impulse purchase I make is for Anne." he said out loud to no one in particular. An Anne who had rejected his proposal, an Anne who was going to marry another man, an Anne who had made it clear in every way she didn't want him.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He stood up, determined to right his wrong. He was moving on! He wasn't thinking about her, and there was no need to send a piece of jewelry to a girl who wasn't more than a friend. It was just a silly mistake, an impulse purchase, and he was going to return it.

He whisked himself back to the jewelers, receipt in hand, and in his haste he ran smack into someone turning the corner.

"I'm so sorry," he gasped, steadying their shoulders. A jolt coursed through him and his eyes widened as he realized just who he was holding close. "Anne!" He said shrilly, "I-I didn't see you there!"

Her cheeks flamed, and he dropped his hands from her as if touching fire. "No, I'm sorry Gilbert, I was distracted." Her eyes darted rapidly from his to the ground.

"Well, um, how are you?!" Gilbert half shouted nervously, grimacing at his awkwardness. _Get it together, Blythe._ He couldn't help but think how adorably beautiful she was, uncomfortable and disheveled.

She met his eyes and his heart dropped as her face reflected how achingly tired he felt. Her eyes lacked their greenness, and the life that was ever presently aflame in them was gone. Where was his Anne?

"I'm fine," she spoke at last. "And what brings you outside in this weather?"

He froze. Oh no. "Uh, well," He scrunched his brow and scratched his head. He certainly couldn't tell her the truth. Why couldn't he think of a blasted thing? This was awkward.

"The post office!" He blurted the first thing that came to his mind.

Her eyes lit. "Oh, but that's where I'm going! Shall we endure this dreary November afternoon together?"

Gilbert didn't needed to be asked twice. Tension or not, a walk with Anne had often been the topic of his dreams of late. He only could hope their walk did not end with his heart in pieces like in his slumber.

While Anne posted her letters, Gilbert watched her and smiled to himself as he recalled the sound of her laughter after he recited the painfully cringeworthy poem Charlie Sloane had written and sent to a dozen Redmond girls. It looked like she hadn't laughed in a long, long time. He was always able to make her laugh.

With resolve, he quickly purchased an envelope and slipped the enamel pink heart necklace inside, adding a note he hoped would provide her another much needed laugh in a months time. It was not the profession of undying love and affection he contemplated risking to write earlier, but it was what a good friend would do.

Outside again in the chill air, they turned to one another. "Well, Anne, it was a pleasant surprise to see you." Gilbert said genuinely.

Anne smiled softy, "You too, Gil."

They held eyes for a second too long, causing his heart to pang with anguish. He definitely had not moved on. He watched her as she turned away, walking away from him once again.

Even still, he had made the right choice.

* * *

"I really can't imagine a time Mom didn't look at you adoringly." Rilla sighed.

Gilbert chuckled, lost in their memories as they settled into a companionably silence.

"Dad?" Gilbert looked at her with a start. "How are you? Really."

He looked out the window. "I'm-," his gaze swung back to her, saddened but honest, "I don't know." He brought a hand to his chin, their eyes still locked in vulnerable confidence. He tried once again to put into words the crowd of feelings and thoughts that waged their daily war in his mind, "I-" He shook his head, realizing there were none. "I don't know."

He looked then back to the window, unsure if these words were right for a father to utter to a daughter, "When we found out Walter was gone, it was so abrupt, so jarring, and we all tried to be strong for one another. To be brave, because that's what you do in war. Your mother was so distraught and I so longed to see laughter in her eyes once again-I thought that if I didn't give into the wave of emotions I was doing my part as a faithful countryman."

He looked to her, "I can't say I ever let myself mourn Walter. I never spoke of it with Anne, but now I see that was wrong. It was cowardice, really. I tried to erase his memory from existence, to be a good Dad, to be a good husband. To erase my own son. It was wrong." His eyes downcast, he shook his head. "It was wrong."

"Oh Dad," breathed Rilla, tears in her eyes, "We all tried to be strong. I remember forcing myself to laugh, because I knew you all missed when we'd laugh together. We didn't know what else to do. But I don't think I could pretend like that again this time. We've been mourning Mom for so long now, with her sickness, I couldn't bear to just forget now."

Gilbert saw his little girl, his silly little lily of the field before him once again. He took her small, slight hands in his, "Rilla, you became a woman too fast. Your childhood was snatched from you when that war came, and you were forced to be an adult in a child's body. It's ok to cry for mom, my dear. You're still yet so young, but without a mother now."

As soon as Gilbert had granted the permission, a dam broke inside her and years of pent up sorrow flowed over. She flung herself into his arms with a cry, burying her head in his chest. She was a little girl again, sobbing in her father's arms.

They sat there for awhile in silence, Gilbert stroking her hair and murmuring softly, "My dear Rilla" every so often with an ache in his heart. "I'm so proud of you, Rilla. You've been so strong."

She pulled her head up with a deep shaking breath as one does at the end of a good cry. "Oh, but I really haven't been. I've just tried to be like you and mom. You were both such a strong team together."

Gilbert looked at her affectionately, "Yes, we were that for each other."

"Do you remember the time Jem injured his foot? When we were just children, playing in the field, and he stepped on a pitchfork barefoot?"

Gilbert shifted through a file of memories, remembering distantly a terrifying moment when they thought Jem might lose his foot. He chuckled softly, "Oh yes. What a day that was."

"I was just five or six then, but I remember it so vividly. Walter and Di helped him hobble back to the house, and he tried so hard not to cry. And you and mom were on the porch, and jumped up when you saw all the blood. Your face was hard in determination and serious, so focused and like a doctor. You didn't say a word, you just picked up Jem in your arms and rushed him to the kitchen table. Mom was right behind you, she was so serious too. It was so quiet, and I felt so scared. But we all knew it was ok, because Daddy was a doctor, and we all thought that as long as Dad was there, nothing could happen.

"So you laid Jem on the table, and his face was squashed in pain. You said Jem would need surgery, right then and there, and mom just nodded and you told Di and Nan to get some water, and they went right off. Shirley went off the get bandages without even being told. Mom told Walter to start reading _Call of the Wild_ , which is just something Mom would think of. I just stood there, not sure what to do, and I was going to ask why Walter was going to read, but then you started touching Jem's foot and he was yelling really loud, but Walter just read right over him, his voice getting louder. And mom held down Jem's leg, and you stitched him right up. I was standing there the whole time, feeling so helpless and forgotten, watching everyone else play their part, and there I was, feeling like the only one who wasn't a grown up.

"Everyone was so tired that no one tucked me into bed. I came downstairs feeling forgotten, but I hid behind the stairs because I saw you and Mom on the sofa holding each other and talking, and I knew that you thought you were alone. I remember what you both said perfectly.

'What a fright we had tonight, Gilbert. I thought my heart would leap right onto the floor when I saw Jem.'

'It sure is something different when it's your own child that might lose a foot. It took everything in me to force myself to stay focused.'

'What would we have done without you, Gil? But the children-I'm so proud of all our little ones, they provided for their brother so valiantly.'

'And their mother too,' you said with that twinkle in your eye, Dad, 'You know Anne-girl, you could have been a nurse if you hadn't married this silly fool.'

Mom laughed and she said, 'You know there's no life I'd rather have than the precious one in my possession.' And you stared at each other so long, I thought maybe you both forgot how to talk. And then you smiled so big and started giving Mom all these kisses. I thought, 'Yuck!' And went back upstairs because I was embarrassed.

"But that memory always stuck with me, because I saw that even though you both looked so serious and like you knew what to do in that moment, you were really just depending on one another. And all the rest of us didn't fall to pieces either because as long as Mom and Dad were ok, we were too."

Gilbert waved her off, "Oh but only if you knew the truth. Most of the time we hadn't a clue what we were doing! We were like teens trying to navigate a world of unknowns together."

She placed her head back to his chest. "But that's the thing; I see now that it wasn't because you were both invincible, but you knew you were better together. We all were, the whole family of us." She wrapped her arms around him tightly. "You're teaching me that still, Dad."

* * *

Gilbert reaches into his pocket and slowly unfurls her note. It had been calling him with a whisper all day.

 _She wore a 'terra-cotta' dress_

 _And we stayed, because of the pelting rain,_

 _Within the hansom's dry recess,_

 _Though the horse had stopped; yea,_

 _We sat on, snug and warm._

 _Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp, sad pain._

 _And the glass that had screened our forms before_

 _Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:_

 _I should have kissed her if the rain_

 _Had lasted a minute more_

It was a poem she had read and hastily scrawled the recording. How old was this little note? He wondered. Off to the side, she had scratched a reminder to herself underlined twice,

 _Show Gilbert-what a laugh-remind you of someone?_

He crumpled onto the bed-their bed, with the quilt she had pieced together, the pillows she had sewn, in their house that they had made a home together-shaking silently, fists clenched, eyes tightly shut, the only sound his ragged, quick breaths.

* * *

 **That was a long chapter! The words just kept coming, I guess. If you've made this far, thank you! I would love to hear your thoughts, what you enjoyed, critiques, or ideas. Like I've said before, this is my first fanfic and I really want to better develop my writing ability :)**

 **The poem is "Thunderstorm in Town" written by Thomas Hardy**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks again to all who've left a comment-I can't tell you how much they've meant to me. You are all a joy.**

 **A little warning on this chapter: Anne's illness takes a more real form halfway through in the shape of leukemia. I'd hate for anyone to be distressed by my writing so proceed with caution. I chose leukemia because I'm familiar with it. I'm not a historian though, so I'm sorry for any medical inaccuracy (Shoutout to the interwebs for a brief history lesson).**

 **But first for some happy flashbacks featuring the fabulous Mrs. Lynde (Thanks L.M.M.!)**

Gilbert approached Green Gables with nervousness, seeing the two matrons of the house side by side on the porch, picturing them as guardians of a fortress. Only a gracious entrance was bestowed upon one wise enough to unlock their secret riddles. He certainly was not, coming here after all that had happened.

However, his nervousness subsided as the familiar women knitting contently noticed his approach. He could hear Mrs. Lynde's friendly squawks calling out to him, "Why, if it isn't Gilbert Blythe, risen from the dead of the grave. It is mighty fine to see you, but I knew, of course, we needn't be a mite afraid with that Blythe constitution bred into you. Didn't I say that, Marilla? No, I dare say I'm not a mite surprised to see you out and about, not a mite.

Used to Mrs. Lynde's ramblings, Marilla gave a friendly smile and politely said, "It's good to see you, Gilbert."

Gilbert smiled cheerily at the familiarity of small town life-it had been two summers since he had last stayed in Avonlea, but some things never changed, including Mrs. Lynde. And he always felt the keen sense that starched straight Miss Cuthbert did regard him fondly. Feeling more at ease, especially since no red hair was in view, he said, "Good afternoon Mrs, Lynde, Miss Cuthbert," he said with a kind nod, removing his cap. "It is sure nice to be out of the house now."

They pulled up a chair for him as Mrs. Lynde plowed on. "Now, I dare say we both thought Anne might be utterly sick when she found out about your illness, Gilbert. It was if that girl had witnessed the Devil himself, that's what. We didn't want her to find out so abruptly, but there it was. We had a ghost in residence; other than the Holy Ghost, of course, herself so white faced, bless her, gliding around like the dead, whispering to God who knows what."

"Now, Rachel-" Marilla said warningly, noticing with a quick glance that Gilbert looked like he had seen a ghost.

Rachel was undeterred from Marilla's shushing. "Well, then, wouldn't you know it-the news came the next morning that you were on the mend, and Anne looked like an angel had descended right here in Avonlea and knocked all the life back into her-she's practically her old self! Hasn't been that way in two years. I dare say she's been floating on its wings ever since. Look at that, all her poetical floofy nonsense she's been going on about has got me spouting off some too-I guess I ought to be ashamed of myself."

Tight lipped and shaking her head, Gilbert thought Marilla might tell her she ought to be ashamed of a lot more that just that. For all of Mrs Lynde's gossipy tendencies, he would rue the day he ever shook his head at them again-Anne, so worried about him?

Before he had time to configure an answer, the three glance distractedly at an approaching rustling, craning their necks in investigation. Davy rounded the corner, dragging a sapling behind him, leaves, roots, and dirt scattering like a trail of droppings. Upon seeing Gilbert, he dropped the tree with a rustled 'whump' and bellowed, "By golly you're alive!"

"Davy!" chastised Marilla. "What in the world are you doing!"

Without skipping a breath or taking his wide eyes off Gilbert, he answered, "I thought for sure you were dead gone! I even told Anne that, and she looked awful scared, it almost made me scared, but not quite, cause I don't get scared, not even in thunderstorms." He took a gulping breath. "Does that mean you're going to start courting Anne now that she gave up that rich fellow? I want to know."

"Davy! You put that tree back this instant and learn to hold your tongue!"

"But Marilla!" He whined, "I'm just doing some weeding, jus' like you always ask me to!"

Davy dragged his feet reluctantly back the way he came, knowing Marilla's stern look was not to be trifled with.

Seeing an opportunity as Gilbert sat mouth open and dumbfounded, Mrs. Lynde chimed in, "Now, I am glad she finally came to her senses about that ritzy Kingsport man of hers. We never met him, you know, but just looking at his picture she sent you could tell he was the sort that prided himself in his money. And you know only a fool lays up his treasures on Earth, that's what. Well, I'm glad she finally came to her senses-in fact-If she'd have just asked my opinion in the first place she would of known that right off. Of course, I knew that God himself had predestined the two of you together-even the Sloanes admit that, even after that dollop of a son Charlie of theirs decided he would try catch Anne with that despicable name, dear knows that was a fluke. But when the Sloanes decide something against their good graces, you know the work of the Almighty is in it, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, amen." She knitted on with a resolute nod.

Marilla looked like she didn't know who she wanted to give a good wallop to the head more, Davy or Mrs. Lynde. Gilbert gripped his knees, feeling a hot prickle rise up his body as his mind sluggishly stumbled about, trying to grasp what world was this in which Anne Shirley rejected Royal Gardner and agonized over his own impending death.

Gilbert was ripped from his reverie with another heart stumbling start as Anne's voice filled the air as she came up the lane, one arm holding a book, the other arm outstretched theatrically as she recited dramatically. Whatever ghost had caught hold of her the night Mrs. Lynde described certainly had lost its grip on this Anne that leapt from cloud to cloud. Unbeknownst to his presence, Gilbert crossed his arms against his beating chest, tilting his head as he watched her delightedly.

Anne, upon realizing she was being watched, and just who was watching her, dropped her arms as her mouth formed a perfect "O", eyes wide. "Gilbert Blythe!" She exclaimed after a moment. Halfway across the yard, Gilbert could see her face bloom into a burning, flushed red.

Gilbert grinned back at her, "Anne Shirley."

"I-I didn't expect you to be out this soon!" He stood as she moved closer, placing the book on the stairs without removing her eyes from his. A foot away, she started to reach out to him, almost putting her hands on his upper arms to examine he was really there, but hesitated with a jolt and tensely clasped them instead. They both stared, Gilbert still smirking, Anne's eyes wide, waiting for the other to say something.

"So I guess-"

"I'm so glad-"

They both paused, each holding a breath and waiting for the other to continue, birds chirping around them in the summer air. Gilbert let out a breathy nervous laugh.

Marilla knitted on determinedly, pretending she was unaware of the awkward scene unfolding in front of her. Mrs. Lynde watched them as they stood face to face, amused and shaking her head smugly. "Well, the cat caught both your tongues," She dead panned.

Gilbert ran a hand through his hair, taking in a deep shaky breath as he watched Anne's eyes follow his movements.

"So," he gestured to her book, "What are you reading?"

"Oh!" Anne said, coming to her senses, relieved a topic of conversation had been chosen. She presented the cover, "Just a Midsummer Night's Dream."

Gilbert smiled, "Ah, the annual summer read," he remembered, even though it had been so long. There was so much empty space that stretched between them during the two years they had spent apart, so much pain and aggravated nights spent alone. They were no longer children, and so much had happened in the time they were separated, but Anne did not seem to Gilbert to be the matured, distant woman he had been forced to become acquainted with. Here in Avonlea summer, he saw she was the same un changeable Anne of old.

Anne nodded, a flush creeping up her face once again. Gilbert couldn't remember a time Anne looked so flustered, and he marveled at the extraordinary series of events that had come to fruition-first Phil's surprising letter, then Mrs. Lynde's gossipy recollection, coupled with Davy's innocent blurting, and finally Anne's bewildered countenance that reflected the warm mush his body had turned into.

As overwhelmed as he felt in her presence, hoping, willing and wondering if something had changed between them, he was not going to let his first afternoon with Anne pass uncomfortably in front of Mrs. Lynde and Marilla. "Well, if you're up for it, would you want to accompany me to the shore? It's been awhile since I've gotten out, and there's nothing quite like the fresh P.E.I sea air to make a man recently on his deathbed come alive again."

Away from the prying eyes of Rachel Lynde, a familiarity settled between them as it had briefly at Diana's wedding. Still, Gilbert could not put aside the heady feeling while being in such close proximity to Anne in the buggy. "Have you enjoyed your time in Avonlea thus far?"

He snuck a glance from the road to Anne, finding the rosy flush still stained her cheeks despite the breeze. She chattered along, and as they crossed a bump in the road, they both were keenly aware to ensure their knees did not brush together.

It was the purest of summer days in which everything is vibrant and charged, heavily saturated and dripping with color. The red roads winded and hugged their way around trees that reflected the lazy, sleepy sunshine through sheer bright green leaves, leading to waving breezy pastures, boastful and pregnant with summer life, rolling like waves to kiss the azure sky.

Anne's chattering faltered to awe as the sea came into sight. Rusted craggy cliffs sliced into twinkling sapphire of the expansive ocean, fading into unblemished sky. As they set out their picnic at the precipice of the cliff, Gilbert regarded Anne freely as she stared out amongst the depths, face upturned to the warmth of the sun, breathing in the fresh sea air. Her red hair contrasted against the primary of the sky and blended with the red earth around them. She was an Island girl through and through, he thought proudly, even nature confirmed it.

"If ever I am misguided or unsure about anything, or overcome with indecision, lead me to the shore, Gilbert. I am convinced even the most muddied and watered desires and thoughts could be illuminated with utter clarity and form. The ocean's lively boldness and the cliff's stark stature would not allow for anything languid or dim."

Gilbert's heart beat faster. "Is it doing that for you now, Anne?"

She looked at him with penetrating eyes that captured him and would not let go. The sea crashed against the rocks below them, and she flushed once again and fluttered her eyes away. "Yes," she said tentatively, as if she dared to say something scandalous, "And I see now I have never thought with such clarity before."

Gilbert himself was experiencing quite the opposite, his head so heavily clouded and warm a clear thought could hardly enter even if it dared. He was surprised his jellied arm could muster the strength to softy place Anne's hand in his own, and he dreamily caressed hers with his thumb.

Anne's eyes stuttered surprisedly to their entwined hands as Gilbert sluggishly gathered words together. "I felt similarly after the fever broke," he said with a thick, throaty voice, "Like everything I ever wanted or dreamed of came back to me, but threefold times stronger than it was before." It was his turn to look at her with penetrating eyes. "And no matter how hard it would be to see them realized, I would never give up trying."

He saw her breath catch as he brought her hand to his lips, peering into her expecting, unveiled eyes. He had only ever been this bold in his dreams, and he wasn't convinced this wasn't one of them. As Anne sat in stunned silence, the sweet ocean air caught up her hair across her face, and she gave a small sigh as Gilbert tucked it back into place.

* * *

Gilbert woke with a start, newspaper sticking to face as he blearily looked around the white room.

A chilly gray overcast mid morning light hung outside the window, and Gilbert recollected with a heavy pang just where he was. He forced his cramped joints into submission as he stood and stumbled over a chair, sending an echoing scrape across the room, steel against concrete.

Still, she did not wake, her ashen pale face tilted against the firm, solitary stark white pillow. Gilbert checked her pulse and let out a shallow breath after feeling its slow thudding.

He collapsed back onto the chair, examining a neglected stale cup of coffee before him and breathing in the sterilized air. It has been three days, three aching days since he urged their old horse with anxious desperation to go faster as Anne lay beside him in crumpled agony, clutching her arms together with knitted brow.

"Gilbert," she had cried with clenched anguish.

"Anne?" He called back, finding her collapsed on the stairs, clutching her back. He rushed to pick her up by her shoulders. "What's happened?"

She murmured something, blinded by the pain. Gilbert lay her on their bed, checking frantically for a fracture. There was none. His mind flitted to other possibilities-pinched nerve? Sciatica?

"Anne," he urged her in a firm voice, "I need you to focus and tell me about your pain-does it shoot down your lower back to your leg?"

She gasped, moving into a fetal position. "No," she breathed out. "It's like-like my bones are inflamed, just here," she clutched her back again.

He felt down her spine, applying slight, gentle pressure. He worried that the flare she felt could indicate infection. If not treated quickly, it could mean a sure and swift death. "Does this make the pain greater?"

"No," she gasped, frustrated, "Just here," she clutched her above her pelvis.

He sighed with relief. "Anne darling, I know it hurts, but I think it's just a symptom of age. We are getting up in our years." He tucked a pillow behind her and rummaged to give her something for the pain. He climbed into bed, arms around her back, shushing into her ear. "It should dissipate now."

But throughout the night, it did not dissipate. Instead, she wailed with tears streaming from her distressed eyes as the pain spread swiftly from her back to her shoulders, up to her neck and chest. Gilbert sat in shocked fear as a fever started to set in. He held her in his arms, rocking her back and forth, as his mind reeled, wracking it for some source of insight.

There were few times in which Gilbert felt utterly at lost to how to treat a patient, and he felt the crushing burden of shame turn to empty lostness. As the dawn rose and Anne was whimpering and disheveled, she relieved herself and found only blood in the chamber pot. It was then Gilbert made a phone call in desperate terror, alerting the Charlottetown hospital that they were coming, rushing out the door with a limp Anne in his arms.

It was here that Gilbert had watched in helpless silence, sitting in his corner chair as doctors and nurses alike poked and prodded an agonized Anne. He tried not to get in the way as he realized his wife could be dying before his very eyes. She looked at him from across the room as a nurse took a blood test, her anxious eyes meeting his distraught ones, saying nothing.

Finally, she was permitted to be put in a medicated, artificial restless sleep as they waited for tests to come back. Nurses with tender smiles and understanding eyes brought coffee and newspapers to his corner chair. He couldn't recall when sleep came.

The door opened slowly and a doctor entered the room, face stern and serious. "Dr. Blythe, good morning," His voice unnaturally loud as it echoed in the small white room.

"Morning," Gilbert replied raspily. The doctor placed himself gently in the chair beside him.

"We've received some news from the tests we took-"

"Just tell me straight and bluntly, doctor to doctor," said Gilbert tiredly, "Please," he added gruffly.

The doctor pursed his lips and nodded. "It's a cancer called leukemia, a cancer of the blood."

The room was silent, except for Anne's slumbered breaths. "Okay," Gilbert whispered.

"Are you familiar with this type?" Gilbert nodded slowly. "Then you know how rigorous it is. Now, there's two options," the doctor said practically, handing a clipboard to Gilbert, "The first is radiation-"

"No." Gilbert said sternly, recalling the fairly new practice that was hard on the body and often caused more problems. He knew he was being old fashioned, but he couldn't bear the thought of Anne enduring such a grueling process.

The doctor nodded and continued, "Then the second is transfusions. However, the success rate is low." He gestured to the chart, "She would go through three blood transfusions over the course of half a year, depending on when donations are available." He gave a moment for Gilbert to glance over the information. "It's not a procedure without it's risks, either."

Gilbert nodded absentmindedly, the stories of war torn soldiers dying of blood transfusion, faces gray and shocked, flashed before him.

After a few more explanations, the doctor left, closing the gray metal door with a light tap, leaving a transfixed Gilbert leaning over the paperwork without reading it.

He glanced up the see the white bedsheets rustle and Anne call out groggily, "Gil?"

"Hi sweetheart," he whispered, taking her hand in his.

"You look so tired," she said, bringing a limp hand to his face.

"Anne," he said hesitantly. He looked to her big gray expecting eyes. He had broken bad news to countless families over the years, the bearer of the news of death. He had always taken shelter in the safety of facts and urged his patients to do the same- _this is what it is and this is what it will do and this is how long it will be_. Death was unfair, but it was inevitable, and it could be prepared for. But now he had to pronounce it's reign over his own life-and a bitter, greedy, and selfish reign it would be. It had already breathed it's stale rotten breath over the white room and the stench would not stop until it had robbed him of everything.

"Anne," he began again, hardly a whisper, and a numbed understanding passed over her eyes.

He could not bear to relate the news in the blunt fashion he had requested.

"Oh," she whispered back, blinking. "So," she paused. "Um," her voice raised several octaves, "How long? How long do I have?"

He felt his own throat constricting involuntarily. He swallowed and said in the clearest voice he could manage, "It could be anytime."

"Okay."

Her voice was shaky and shrill, eyes distant.

"Will it...hurt?"

Another swallow. It didn't help. He nodded.

Tears bled slowly from her eyes, gray orbs fixated on the drab wall before her.

He joined her on the bed, pressing his body into her, grasping her limp limbs to himself.

She sat unresponsively. After a time, she whispered, cheeks damp, "Can I die at home?"

* * *

"'Till death do us part,'" Anne repeated dreamily. "Have you ever thought of how romantic that is? In all the weddings I've witnessed I've never given it a second thought."

Gilbert stretched his arms out above his head, slumping in the Green Gables kitchen chair. "Ah yes, till death do us part you'll have to endure my smelly feet," he smirked.

Anne remained in dreamy imagination, chin propped in her hand, leaning on the table. "In all life's joys-'till death to us part' we can relish in them together. In all life's sorrows-'till death to us part' we will endure them faithfully, bound with unrelenting commitment to our vows. It's such a beautiful thought."

She clasped his arm in excited anticipation, eyes alive. "But it's not just a beautiful thought! Soon we will be in the midst of it, our marriage growing in strength and depth as each circumstance passes before us."

His eyes twinkled back at hers. "So you're looking forward to enduring my smelly feet?"

She laughed as only a bride on the brink of her union could.

* * *

"Do you need anything? Are you comfortable?" Gilbert situated Anne into their bed, pulling the covers over her and plumping pillows beside her in the lamplight.

They were finally home again. As Anne had sat in her white room waiting to be discharged, Gilbert made calls to family and friends, entering them into the horror. The girls had cried and Shirley had stayed so silent for so long Gilbert thought the line had blanked.

"Is it really that bad? Surely there's a cure somehow?" Jem reasoned, ever practical.

Anne clasped her hands over the blankets. "I think there would be nothing more balming to my soul than to hear a recitation of "Bingen on the Rhine." I believe it's in that anthology there-yes-that one. I feel a camaraderie with that poor soldier on the hill-I, a soldier of sorts, embarking on my trail of death, and he, one who has nobly completed the task."

"And who better to hear it from than the legendary Gilbert Blythe?" He teased, ignoring the grotesque feeling that crept up inside him at her words. "Are you sure you won't ignore me this time?"

"Oh, I didn't ignore you, I assure you. In fact, I can still hear your loud, clear voice from all those years ago."

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the headboard, face alit under the lamplight as if receiving enlightenment.

"You look like a school girl awaiting her bedtime story," he chuckled.

She waved her hand at him, cracking an eye, "Shh-I'm prepping myself."

After he had finished reading, her eyes remained closed, a peaceful look across her face.

Gilbert took her hands firmly in his and shook her out of her reverie. "Anne, I've decided to give up the practice," she opened her mouth in protest, "No-just listen," he interrupted her, "I'm not going to spend my time caring for others and let your last days be spent with someone else watching over you. I want to be here with you. It's time I retired anyways, and besides, Trevor has been an excellent apprentice and I'm confident he will do well in my place."

"But-"

"Anne, I know you never said a word over all these years about how busy I was and how few nights I was at home, but it's true-I let my work consume me and I was never very good at putting it aside when I got back. If I could go back, I'd do it differently."

His eyes implored her own. "I would. I thought back then I could save the world. Well, here I am, losing you." He was surprised he could say it so matter-of-factly. So many tears had fallen since the hospital it had become routine. "Ok? I've decided it already, and I've notified who I needed to notify-and I know, I hated to do it without telling you, but I wasn't going to let myself be a neglectful husband anymore."

He gave her hands one last squeeze. "Ok, now let's hear it."

But all she said was, "I love you, Gil."


	5. Chapter 5

April 15, 1921

 _to the bakery even today they say you can't live by bread alone living alone don't let me live alone lonely yelling they ask do you need anything and I say nothing not a thing no thing nothing_

 _we were no longer are past not present wanderers wandering wanting dreaming down lanes of asters and goldenrods October knowing even when frost came they would come back always be back regrowing with ambition with bright eyes with open hearts hopeful out of Avonlea more riches to savor always more no bitter pills no tubes no dripping chemicals no emaciation without agony without nausea without night terrors without crying without pleading without God why please stop without_

 _she took my hand I never let go I lead her to another bend there were no longer are always bends another dream another garden another a not nothing no her dreams brooks blooms bright frost came always comes chilled smooth skin so new always winter winter is not forever the blooms will be back always come back on her cheeks blooming abdomen blooming with long nights and tired eyes plural not singular always thawing bread with taste and would taste again and there were always agains_

 _days and nights nights days sorrows for the nights sorrows for the mornings plural always plural cells multiple cells and marrow suck the marrow out of life only if it's not leukemia gray with gray walls gray echoes gray skin gray bruises gray winter without thaw lakes without reflection skies without stars hallways without doors without end please Gilbert make it stop please stop won't it stop nights and days days nights without end without spring without leaves without rustle brooks without babble spools without thread skin without softness shores without tide always stagnant waves never coming back will never be back no soil no summer no harvest no taste no touch no smell no sound only clanging present not past singular not plural without bends houses without gardens only mortar crumbling clawing without green without growth blood blister bowel breakage bone burial buried without Anne_

* * *

Green Gables

October 2, 1921

 _My dearest Anne,_

 _Yesterday before the first frost Diana helped me pull up your garden. It was in bad disrepair from a summer of neglect, I'm sorry to say, but we were able to find plenty of bulbs that I'll keep and plant next year. Fred is as busy as ever. I will be surprised if he drops dead one day without a pitchfork in his hand—he keeps working on the fields every day just like we did when we were twenty. Diana says it's why God built the Wrights all bulk, sturdy, and compact, so they'd last the test of time and not get stretched out. God knew what he was doing when he built a Wright._

 _You would be proud of me, Anne. Just a couple days ago the mayor of White Sands gave me a call and asked if I was looking to continue my practice. Remember old Tom Baker? He looked like a summer string bean but had the voice of a grizzly bear. He suddenly passed away last week and now White Sands is out of a doctor. All I could think of was those big gray green eyes of yours studying me with your head tilted to the side saying, 'Is it worth it, Gilbert? Are you doing this for the wrong reasons?' Right on the spot I told him I couldn't do it, but I knew a young man who'd be perfect and told him about Trevor. He's still as timid as ever, but the experience will be good for him, shake him out of his boots a bit. Better a young fresh Doctor than an old fart like me. I couldn't abandon the poor chap completely, as he is very nervous about the whole thing. I told him he could call if he got in a bind, and before you say anything, I do think that is manageable. They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but look who's learning?_

 _Speaking of being old, Diana has been busy out of her mind cleaning out Orchard Slope, still, even though Mrs. Barry has been gone for-what is it, ten years now? She told me she's found a total of thirty different tea sets in every nook and glass hutch in the house, all covered with dust. She thinks there's more, too. Well, that got me thinking-I'd hate for little Rilla to spend all that time stressing about getting Green Gables cleaned out when I'm gone, so I got to going through some old stuff. Lo and behold, I found a stash of Rachel Lynde's quilts hiding in a box under the spare room's bed. They looked like they'd been knitted yesterday, and I knew they were hers because they were that coveted tobacco stripe style that no one in the entire town could rival her for. Funny the things you remember. They stunk to high heaven, though. There were so many moth balls it was like she was planning on taking them with her into eternity. I thought, 'Now, Mrs. Lynde, you can't lay up your treasures in Heaven,' I chuckled about that one for the whole rest of the day._

 _I never did figure out what to do with your closet. It occurred to me that if I cleared it out, then we'd have an empty closet with nothing to put in it, so I kept everything where it was._

 _'It's Nana's season,' little Maggie said this evening, picking up a wad of golden red leaves from underneath the Maple. Rilla excused herself quickly, walking towards the house with her hand clamped to her mouth. Ken followed her with a sigh. All I said was, "Yes, it is." I'd been thinking the same thing ever since Birch Path became littered with leaves and I was thankful someone finally said it out loud. You always fit so well in Octobers, and I was sure if I reached out my hand, yours would be there to meet mine. What I'll do when November comes around and everything dies back, I don't know._

 _Do you remember how absurdly warm October was last year? We were able to take a stroll down by the shore without shivering. Your transfusions would be starting in November and you asked me if I thought they would be successful. I put my arm around you and told you yes darling, but I knew. I think you knew too, but it was easier to pretend October wouldn't end._

 _I visited your grave and found a poem laying beside the stone. It must have been from Paul because it was beautiful, and you were the only other one who could write beautiful things._

 _The night before last I had a dream that you were a little girl drawing pictures. You drew this one of a storm at sea, and I knew as soon as you finished it, it would become real and you'd be lost inside of it. I kept saying, 'Don't do that, Anne. Stop drawing, Anne,' and before I could do anything else, I was staring at the page as you floundered and fought against the waves. We used to analyze our dreams before the children came, pillows propped up, the morning light shining on our bed. I'd have you do the same, but I think I already know._

 _The willow I planted on the day of your burial is growing quite nicely, and I'm happy to look at it out the window from my blue chair each morning and watch sun slowly lift all the dew while the weather is still mild. Sometimes I wonder how long I have to wait until I'm the oak growing alongside._

* * *

White Sands Schoolhouse

812 Greenville Ave

October 22, 1882

 _Dear Anne,_

 _You might be wondering why I'm writing to you from White Sands when I just saw you yesterday, and for that I blame Leroy McDonald. I've assigned my class to write to a pen pal in another town, and Leroy blurted out, 'Who are you going to write to, Mr. Blythe?' I said the first name that came to mind, which happened to be yours. So, here we are._

 _There will be a lot of letters going back to Avonlea—you would be surprised how many students don't know a soul out of their own hometown. In my haste to find viable recipients, I asked the women of Avonlea on Sunday after church if they wouldn't mind receiving a letter from a White Sands student. The only person that flat out refused was Mrs. Harmon Andrews, but that's no surprise there. I can't imagine she's ever said yes to anything in her life. Even when Mr. Andrews proposed I'm sure she didn't give much more than an affirmative grunt._

 _I might have to assign myself lines, for I've already gone way off course from my own instructions. First, I'm supposed to discuss today's weather with you. Now that we're in the 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,'* I think I'd rather you do the describing; I wouldn't want to discredit your favorite season, but I think my teacher would be cross if I broke two instructions right in a row._

 _This morning was as crisp as an apple: Just the right amount. Cold enough to require a sweater, and cold enough that the grass had just enough frost to resist when stepped on, but eventually gave way with a small crunch. There isn't a cloud in sight, and the sun has yet to make it's way up to its proper place, and it shines it's orange light through hazy mid-morning mistiness. How was that, Miss Shirley?_

 _Secondly, I'm to discuss my weekend with you. This part may be a bit dull, for I can't remember a moment we weren't together. Not that it was dull at all—in fact, I think this might have been the best weekend of the year, and quite worthy of written record. Let's start at the beginning..._

* * *

After supper, Gilbert leisurely wandered down the lane to Green Gables, crunching happily on an apple he plucked from the orchard. The rosy corals of evening light seeped through translucent green corn stalks yet to be harvested and blinked through the tree's remaining leaves as he passed by.

Anne was not waiting for him at the gate as she was prone to do most Friday evenings, nor was there any answer at the front door. Gilbert pressed his ear against it only to be met with silence. He brought a hand to knock one last time, just to make sure, and paused when a jumbled clang sounded from inside, followed by an aggravated yelp.

 _Ah, there she is._

With a smirk, he jumped merrily off the porch and made his way to the back door of the kitchen. There, he met quite a scene.

There stood Anne, hair disheveled and apron covered in flour. The whole room was covered in flour, in fact. A bowl containing the remnants whirled haphazardly on the floor, while the rest rose into the air in floating puffs, the waning sunset rays streaming through the window alighting a slow swirl of cloud. Particles of white clung to the loose strands of Anne's hair as she stood frozen in place, face of stricken terror, as the settling ash danced around her.

" _What_ in the world _happened_?"

"Oh, Gil, don't laugh now," Anne pleaded, "This day must be laughing at me—it has to be laughing at me—" she brought her hands to her hair in agitation, causing further puffs to emit.

Gilbert stooped to pick up the large bowl and hide his smile. "What are you making?"

Anne sighed tragically. "Josie asked me to make pies for tomorrow—but I was so vexed with her at the meeting I must have not heard her. It wasn't until Diana mentioned something earlier today about how I 'must be so exhausted from baking up a storm' that I realized what a frightful mistake I had made. Ten pies! And not just any pies, but apple pies!" Her voice rose into slight hysterics.

"Surely we could go without them; I imagine Mrs. Barry and them will have made a bunch of pies."

"But not _apple pies_ , Gilbert, and did you ever hear of a Harvest Festival without _apple pies?"_

"Well, I-"

" _No_ , you _haven't,_ because a Harvest Festival without apple pies is like-like winter without Christmas!" She said shrilly, wringing her hands. "And then _-then_ I realized while I was making the crust that we have just but _two_ apples down in cellar, and I know enough about math that two apples is completely useless for ten pies. I was just beside myself—so much so I dropped the bowl of flour everywhere. And just when I'd measured out for all ten!"

She started pacing, gnawing at her lip "Oh, what am I going to do? Josie will never let me live this down... _What_ am I going to _do_ —" she wailed.

Gilbert rolled his sleeves up, starting to feel acutely overwhelmed by all this feminine plight.

"What we need is a good, thought out plan of action," he said sternly. "Getting the apples will be a pinch—my parents have a dozen bushels already picked. All we'll need is a wheelbarrow. I'll cut them—I'm good with a knife—and then you can prepare the crust and the...insides." Gilbert's knowledge on pie ingredients was limited. "Then we can help each other keep the oven going, and stay up the night if we have to."

Anne looked up at him with large, gray green eyes. "That might be the kindest, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me."

Gilbert jammed his cap back on his head and gave her a small smile. "Let's get those apples, then."

After many cups of tea, several pounds of apple peelings and cores, and a stealthy trip to Orchard Slope for more butter at two in the morning, the pies were finally complete and the last sat toasting in the oven. No one would know any better that the two spent the entire night baking, save for Marilla, who went to bed shaking her head just as they started their fourth round of 'Who could peel apples the fastest', paring knives flashing furiously.

They sat slumped against the back kitchen steps, steaming cups of tea in hand, watching the morning sunrise peek baby blues and pinks over the rolling hills.

"They better think these are the best apple pies they've ever tasted," Gilbert said. "They'll certainly be the freshest."

"Can you believe we've been up all night? I hardly feel tired." Anne said, sounding quite the opposite. She sighed contently. "Have you ever experienced a more delightful morning? I like to think the sun has been waiting for us all along."

Gilbert propped up against his elbows and grinned at Anne, watching the rising morning glow illuminate her face. He brushed off a streak of flour from her cheek.

"And Josie Pye will never have to know."

* * *

 _Josie Pye never did know, but by 11am I felt like I was going to drop dead from exhaustion. The other A.V.I.S. members certainly were confused when we starting laughing uncontrollable while setting up tables. We both looked up at each other, and I found how tired I truly was reflected in your face, and suddenly I was laughing. You started laughing, too, and then we just couldn't stop. It was our little secret, and I'm sure we looked absolutely mad._

 _I'm still not completely sure how we made it through that day. I think all the nervous energy waiting to perform the musical in the evening helped a lot—good thing we did all that practicing, for the entire thing was a blur..._

* * *

"You take that back!"

Gilbert huffed. "But, it's the truth, Anne—it's staring you right in the face and you're too stubborn to admit it."

At the edge of the Bell's dairy farm the two youths stood far apart under the last waning kiss of the sun's golds and yellows. Anne's feet were rooted to the ground, eyes of flint, hands on hips. Gilbert kicked absently at a cluster of ragweed, sending seeds afloat into the descending October evening sky.

He picked apart a leaf by the veins and crumpled the papery skins into his hands, Anne's sharp eyes watching his every movement.

"You know, no matter how hard you glare at me, I'm not taking it back."

Anne looked like she was just short of stamping her foot. Instead, she turned on her heel and clambered over the fence in defiant retreat.

"Anne, come on!" Gilbert called after her, heaving a sigh when he received no response. Keeping up with Anne sometimes felt like trying to tame and tether a deer—better left wild. He followed her anyway.

He caught up to her on the precipice of the Haunted Wood. She was turned away from him, back stiff, skirt brushing against a cluster of ferns. The looming trees yawned and leaned to receive her, and Gilbert knew he had only moments until she sprang into them.

"I don't wish to speak with you if you're going to continue to say cruel things to me," she said without turning her head, chin poised.

Gilbert was just short of rolling his eyes. "All I said was that you're too sensitive to Josie's critiques. And I only said it because you don't need to be—"

She turned with a snap. "You try having red hair and we'll see how _you_ feel then."

The A.V.I.S had planned their most bold event yet for the Harvest Festival. It was Anne's idea, inspired after a musical she had stumbled upon during their time at Queens. They didn't want to _change_ how anyone in Avonlea thought, but perhaps they could _encourage_ a more compassionate reception to the French descendants that lived and worked in Avonlea. Anne believed firmly that if they could show the town how hard the French worked to make Canada their home even in the most despairing situations, they could find in themselves the desire to reconcile their differences.*

"I know the Avonlea folk _want_ to be loving and accepting," Anne said passionately, "But perhaps they don't _know_ that they want to be—yet. But stories do have the amazing capacity to awaken that hibernating goodness residing deep in one's heart, don't you think?"

After some concern, long conversation, grave consideration, and only a small amount of butting heads, the A.V.I.S decided to put on the musical _Evangeline: La Belle de l'Acadie;_ a love story of a young French Acadian woman who was separated from her beloved, Gabriel, when the British deported the majority of Acadians from modern day Nova Scotia.*

It wouldn't be too difficult for the group—Moody McPherson could play the fiddle*, Jane Andrews was a master of piano, Gilbert could sing decently enough, and Josie and Gertie Pye, while intolerable otherwise, were favorable seamstresses, and nothing could deter Anne from makings actors of the rest of them. She decided none could play la belle de l'Acadie more perfectly than their own belle of Avonlea, but Diana could not stop giggling every time she went to recite her lines. Despite her insistence, the group with the exception of Josie, convinced by Gilbert, decided that Anne would make the best Evangeline. She already knew every line and spent most of the previous practices coaching Diana in the ways of drama.

However, as the date of the festival neared, the A.V.I.S. crew's fears lay not in the musical's recession, but in whether the lead heroine could keep her steps through each act. As Josie made adjustments to the costumes and tweaked the sets, she never failed to manifest faintly disguised doubts with offhand comments and remorseful sighs targeted at Anne. A congruence with her comments and Anne's missteps was undeniable. With just a week until the Harvest Festival, their last rehearsal was particularly bad. Josie sighed resolutely that brown hair _would_ be better suited, and thus it began: Moody slowed the fiddle's pace to match Anne's fumbling feet; Jane barreled on unaware, not missing a note; Gilbert lost count in confusion and further tripped Anne. In a matter of moments the whole scene was a jumble of limbs and a cacophony of instruments. Josie offered that they did try their best, but perhaps this musical was just not meant to be. With a cry, Anne stormed out of the Bell's barn, and with a glance towards Diana, Gilbert ran after her.

He took a firm step towards Anne. "Everyone thinks the musical is a great idea—even Josie, but Pye's will never admit they're wrong. Just—just don't give up now, now that they've all warmed up to it."

Anne's shoulders lost their sharpness. Her pale face was troubled and shadowed against the dense dark of the wood.

"They'll forget all about Evangeline. They'll only remember how red-headed Anne Shirley had two left feet."

"Nonsense. Come, I'll show you."

Gilbert took Anne's hand and continued their dance where they left off. He sang the tune softly as dusk made its sleepy decent; the only sound the scampering of squirrels in the trees and the soft shuffle of leaves below their feet.

 _Many a youth, as he knelt in church and opened his missal,_

 _Fixed his eyes upon Evangeline as the saint of his deepest devotion;_

 _Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!_

 _Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,_

 _And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,_

 _Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;_

 _Among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome._

One foot graced the way for the other's, and Anne gained confidence. Memory replaced fear, their feet as sure as tide against shore—washing in, meeting, and washing out. She lifted her eyes from the ground and found Gilbert's. His voice hitched, suddenly aware their only company was the swaying trees, and with effort, continued on.

 _Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered_

 _Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music._

 _Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances_

 _Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;_

 _Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them._

 _Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!_

 _Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!_

Feet were forgotten to involuntary action and the only thing that remained were hands, hot against the other's, his broad against her waist, hers resting in caress on his shoulder, eyes linked in bond, and Gilbert's singing that only just whispered over the trees. This practice was a world of difference. No Jane, no Josie, no Moody, and none of the others to critique Gabriel and Evangeline—now, in that moment, they were unmistakably and intimately Gilbert and Anne. Gilbert could not deny it was to this woman he sang to now, raw and true, drawing her closer, faces flushed.

 _Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children._

 _He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,_

 _Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action._

 _She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman._

' _Sunshine of Saint Eulalie' was she called; for that was the sunshine_

 _Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;_

 _She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,_

 _Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children.*_

Heart beating wildly, Gilbert faltered out the last line until his throat closed completely and everything stilled. Their breaths stalled, their feet halted, and they held one another still in a caress of hands, waists, and shoulders. Even the trees stilled their whispers in bated anticipation. They were close—so close, he could feel Anne warm against his neck, as warm as the flush that stained her cheeks under the fading twilight. Gilbert could hear the unmistakable _thump thump thump_ shaking throughout his body, down to his fingertips and reverberating through a trembling Anne, whose eyes bore into him with an unrecognizable look that made him wonder if she were looking at Gilbert or Gabriel.

"See?" he managed to breath. "No mistakes this time."

* * *

 ** _The first entry was heavily influenced by the poem "Without" by Donald Hall. The second was heavily influenced by "Letter in Autumn," also a poem by Donald Hall._**

 ** _*line from "To Autumn" by John Keats_**

 ** _*Anne's idea is probably way too progressive to be historically accurate, but if anyone were to be progressive in the late 1800s I'd like to think it would be Anne._**

 ** _*Evangeline the musical debuted in 1874 and was based loosely on the epic ballad of the same name by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. In 1999 another musical adaption was created which follows the narrative more closely. Longfellow's Evangeline is to Nova Scotia what Anne is to PEI, and while not an actual historical person, the events of the Great Exportation depicted in the poem are true._**

 ** _*Moody Spurgeon McPherson played the fiddle in the musical Anne and Gilbert._**

 ** _*Passages taken from "Evangeline: The Tale of Acadie" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and manipulated by me. I couldn't find the original music so I used the poem as a song._**

 _Thank you so much for reading. Reviews are treasured._

 _Special thanks to elizasky who is a coach of wisdom in all things grief. Go check out "Within a Forest Dark" for the best 'dead Anne' fic on here, if you haven't already. It's amazing._


	6. Chapter 6

"As much as you might not appreciate geometry, you do have to admit Euclid was a genius, and it's a worthy subject to be studied. Kepler said that even God himself used geometry as a model in creating the world.* Imagine that! Discovering the very essence of how God fabricated the world together. It's absolutely fascinating."

"Shhh..." Anne said, stopping at the top of the hill and placing a hand on Gilbert's stomach to still him.

Gilbert turned to her, feeling a pang of annoyance. In recent weeks Anne had become more whimsical and dreamlike than normal-and that was saying something. Unlike their usual combative debates, there had been countless times when he felt that she were not computing what he was saying, and beyond that, not listening at all. It was as her mind had floated into another sphere, right smack in the middle of their conversations, and unless he said her name countless times, she would go on staring out across the field, out the window, dazing at a wall-anything was a distraction. When she would finally come to, she would not even have the remorse to apologize. It was aggravating.

"Well, what?" Gilbert said, trying his best to apply the very greatest of gentlemanly patience his father had instilled in him. It was becoming increasingly more toilsome and unrewarding when in the often nonsensical realms of women.

Her small white face was the picture of still contemplation-she stood pensive and unmoved, all but her hair, which softly tickled in the summer breeze that gave its last kisses of warmth before becoming evening. The sun lay low and lazy, twinkling like mirrors upon the distant sea below them. It's orange hue embalmed the fields of flowers that lay in descending expanse, each bud swaying softly in synchronized song until they dissolved into a distant mix of sunset and shore.

"Can't you hear them? The lupines?" Anne said softly.

Gilbert listened reluctantly. He supposed he could hear something like shushing as the breeze combed through the fields. It was nice, in a calming sort of way.

"Do you know the story of the Lady Lupin?"** Anne said.

"Sure. Everybody knows it. The woman who wanted to make the world a more beautiful place, so she planted lupines all over the Island, and every year they spread more and more beauty. And ever since, she's been known as the Lady Lupin. Now, did you hear what I said about Kepler-"

"But did you know that she passed on a message to the flowers themselves?" Anne said quietly, as if she were afraid to interrupt them.

Gilbert looked at her with a tight jaw.

"She told them to spread as a reminder to all that beauty still remains in the world, lest they forget. They were to be a symbol that goodness presides, year after year, and not only presides, but grows. And so they sing their song every summer, 'Remember, remember, remember,' so that we shall never forget."

Gilbert stood mystified as a tear glided down Anne's cheek. In his shock and realization that something brewed below the surface beyond whimsical distraction, he grabbed a handful of purple and pink lupines from the ground, ripped them out, and handed them to her.

"No, no, they can't be for me," she sniffled. "I haven't been planted yet. But, I know someone you can give them to." Without another word, she left him standing, flowers outstretched, and made her way down the hill towards Blythe Farm.

It wasn't to Gilbert's home she went, but to the cemetery. With nimble steps, she made her way quietly to a stone that was well visited and honored, that bore the name of a man dearly loved and missed, and reflected the day's date of exactly one year prior.

Gilbert felt his heart falter to the very depths of his stomach. _Matthew's anniversar_ y. How he could have been so careless, so ignorant, _so idiotic,_ to not only have forgotten, but to choose the hideous subject of geometry as the topic of discussion today, of all days, and to resent her for her absence of mind.

With a repentant heart, he lay the bouquet gently upon the head stone, and took his place next to Anne with head bowed.

"I'll always remember," Anne said. "I'll always remember the beauty and goodness, Matthew, until the day I'm planted, too, and can spread on what you first gave me."

Gilbert placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and there they stood, until the sun descended for the night.

* * *

"...And that's why we give them only to those who've come to the end of this life. To those who leave with us so much love and so much good."

Unnoticed, Gilbert leaned against the door frame. He watched the scene with a contented smile, drinking in the motherly, soft voice that rapturously captured the young audience before her, and the loving hands that tucked and tended so gently.

"Daddy!" The two girls cried from their beds, wriggling under the covers as Gilbert came to tickle their sides and receive their small arms about his neck.

" _Gilbert!_ I didn't expect you to be home so early!" Anne cried in delight. "We've just ended our story time."

He slipped an arm around his wife's waist and gave her a kiss on the cheek as Nan and Di jumped on the bed around them.

"I wasn't expecting to either, Anne-girl." He laughed as the girls continue to dance in delight singing, 'Daddy's home! Daddy's home!'

"I think bedtime is completely forgotten by now," Anne smiled.

After many kisses, tickles, more bedtime stories, and all efforts of coercion by both Mom and Dad, calm was finally restored, or at least enough that the girls were secured back under the covers.

Leading the way to their bedroom, Gilbert wrapped his arms from around Anne's back, stooping to plant kisses upon her neck while she stumbled across the hall in girlish giggles.

After the door was closed, Gilbert continued bestowing kisses upon Anne's neck, forehead, and face, who now faced him and was rubbing his back tenderly.

"And how long do I get you this time?"

Gilbert only briefly paused his perusal. "All night. And all tomorrow, too."

" _No_ ," she said in disbelief, stilling his face with her hands.

Gilbert ran his hands along her hips and nodded. "Miss Everett's condition is much improved, and I've got that doctor who owes me a favor to cover my patients for tonight and tomorrow. Being away an entire week is too long not to spend some time at home."

"You can't mean it."

Now released, Gilbert picked Anne up and laid her gently on the bed and continued his affections upon her. "I was thinking we take a day at the shore." He nuzzled a caress into her neck. "The boys have been begging me all summer."

Anne sighed in blissful delight at the thought. "So that means lots of time tomorrow to talk?"

Gilbert paused. "Yes..."

She fumbled at his tie, sliding it off and working at the buttons on his shirt.

"Because I was thinking we would be otherwise occupied tonight to catch up."

A boyish grin spread over Gilbert's face.

"Very occupied, I would think."

* * *

The following spring, a brown boy lay peacefully in his crib, forgotten by all but one. For just as his life was beginning, it seemed the natural balance of the world would be made just paces away in the master bedroom.

At the beckoning of their father, Jem, Diana, Nan, and Walter stood at the doorway and watched the scene before them fearfully. A nurse sat beside a pale, unconscious Anne, dabbing at her forehead gingerly with a wet cloth, while Gilbert paced the room, deep dark circles below his eyes.

Gilbert paused to look at the four wide, petrified eyes. His own held the hollowed emptiness of an exhausted man.

"Is mom..." Jem trailed off.

"No," Gilbert said sternly. "But I need you take care to be a responsible young man and watch out for your younger siblings. I can't leave your mother's side. Before you put them in bed, I need you to do one thing for me."

Jem stood silently and obediently, straightening his back. Gilbert thought he looked far older than just seven.

"I need you to pick some lupines from the Valley."

Jem's eyes widened in understanding.

"Go on, now," Gilbert said. "Be quick."

When Anne stirred in the early hours of the morning with heavy lids and damp skin, the flowers were the first thing she saw. Her head slumped back back onto the pillows, eyes glassy. Gilbert sprung to action, hands shuffling over her and checking her vital signs, administering medicine, and quickly murmuring to the nurse for more water.

"You mean it? Truly?" Her voice was thick and weak, and with great effort she searched his face with hope and expectation.

He smoothed her nightgown back into place.

"Truly...but don't leave us just yet, darling. Not yet, if you can help it."

Her lids flickered, succumbing back to sleep. Her mouth twitched in effort of a smile.

"Not yet, I think."

* * *

 _April 10, 1921_

 _Medical Notes_

 _Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia_

 _Suppressed appetite and limited mobility; inability to stand. Increased pain in the lower lumbar, morphine administered in three hour spans. Short term memory loss in regards to time and place._

 _Estimated time: 1.5 weeks._

* * *

 _April 13, 1921_

 _Medical Notes_

 _Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia_

 _Acute liver failure. Constant hematuria. Anorexia. Mobility limited to hands and head. Inhibition of speech; communication limited to hand squeezes and blinking. Right facial paralysis, excepting for occasional spasm, once per hour. Inability to regulate body temperature. Too weak to be rushed to hospital._

 _Estimated time: One, perhaps two days._

 _There are no blooms this time, but this time it is certain._

* * *

Anyone who knew anything in Avonlea knew that a summer day never did pass when a certain gravestone did not have a bundle of fresh lupines atop it. Each evening on his daily walk, the old Dr. Blythe would pick a new batch of flowers and head to the cemetery.

As time went on and the old doctor became too aged to continue the tradition himself, that James boy of his always made sure to help him out.

* * *

 ***Johannes Kepler, Harmonices Mundi, 1618**

 ****My grandmother from P.E.I. told me this story as a child, for there are masses and masses of lupines on the Island, but they are not a native flower to the region. After some google searching, there is some truth to the legend; an English woman moved to Maine in the early 1900's, and spread lupines all across the region because they were her favorite flower. The story was adapted and made into a well known children's story, Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney in the 80's. I'm guessing that similarly, someone liked lupines and planted them on P.E.I., and because they are an invasive species they spread everywhere. Nonetheless, the tale still holds a lot of nostalgia and magic to me.**


End file.
